


It Should Have All Turned Out Differently

by lilybeth84



Category: Revenge (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilybeth84/pseuds/lilybeth84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regency AU, in which Nolan is an inventor during Great Britain's Industrial Revolution, and Emily is his ward.</p><p>Though reluctant in helping Emily with her plan for revenge, Nolan does so for reasons he does not always understand. Along the way he finds himself falling in love with her, though he is positive she could never feel the same about him. When his reputation is ruined because of her engagement to Daniel, he makes a decision that will change their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Should Have All Turned Out Differently

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stellatundra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellatundra/gifts).



> For stellatundra. Happy Yuletide!

Nolan Ross had a headache and the champagne was not helping. 

The Season was in full swing and his residence in Grosvenor Square had been turned upside-down to host the most lavish party London society had seen since before the Napoleonic Wars. He had spared no expense; it would surely be remembered. 

That was entirely the point.

Taking a sip of the sparkling champagne in his goblet, and grimaced. It was excellent champagne, but he had paid an exorbitant fee for it. Bribing customs officials was no easy task, and with the revolutionary wars, it had been extremely difficult to find, let alone attempt to bring it across the channel without the cargo being sunk or stolen.

He wanted this whole night to be over before it had even begun. It wasn’t that he didn’t adore a party—he just didn’t adore this one.  
Tonight Emily Thorne would finally come out into society. Tonight she would begin her revenge on the Grayson family, starting with the son and heir, Daniel Grayson.

He heaved a great sigh and thought of David Clarke. He would not be happy about this at all. 

The son of a printer, Nolan had grown up around books and newspapers, and perhaps even more importantly, inventors and industrialists. At the age of five, he had been given the chance of an education, a rare thing for a child of his class, and attended a local grammar school. Thus armed with Latin and arithmetic, the ability to read and write, and a healthy sense of ambition, he joined the Royal Navy, hoping to find a fortune larger than his father had ever dreamed. 

Not the bravest or strongest of soldiers, he made up for it in intelligence and a quickness of thought. Despite his working class background, Nolan found himself rising to the unprecedented rank as secretary to the Flag Officer, under the Lord Horatio Nelson. At sea during the French Revolutionary Wars, he was injured in a battle when the bullet from a French musket struck him in the thigh. 

Because of his injury, his career in the Navy had been brief; but out of it he had achieved the wealth he had so desperately wanted in the form of prize monies and a healthy pension. 

Back in London, he took over his father’s printing press, he and his partner, a man he had served with in the Navy, by the name of Captain David Clarke, transformed the industry with the implementation of the press into cast iron. With sales from the London Times and other papers, his wealth increased and so did his fame.  
Then David had been accused of treason when the ship carrying the families of many British citizens of importance had been attacked by a French warship and was sunk. When captured, the French Captain gave David Clarke as the source of the intelligence. A widower, he had been dragged from his young daughter, and Nolan could only watch in horror as his friend and confidante was tried and sentenced to hang—but before his public execution, he was brutally murdered in prison. His daughter was orphaned and sent to an asylum before Nolan could do anything about it. Lost in the system, it had taken him five long years of searching for her before he found her in Liverpool working in a cotton factory.

The first time he’d seen her was through a swirling cloud of cotton; her dark blonde hair scraped tightly back from her face, lest it become caught in the looms, hands angry red and cracked from too many days hunched over the combs in the cold.

He had not recognized her as the child he remembered. Once full of smiles and laughter, she was now bitter and mean. 

At fifteen, Amanda Clarke was uncouth, uneducated, and lacked in any of the refinement other young ladies of her station had. She was a nightmare. Treated so poorly in the hands of the people who should have cared for her, and believing her father guilty, she had forgotten what she had known. She stole and had the language of the worst sailor Nolan had ever encountered.

It had taken a very long time to convince her that her father had not done what the world believed him to have done, and even longer to convince her to come with him.

She hadn’t trusted him and he hadn’t blamed her.

She eventually allowed him to take her away from that godforsaken factory, though she put him through hell before she would let him do so, not wholly convinced that he was real. Half Nolan’s fortune was hers, left to her by her father, something he didn’t begrudge at all. He was incredibly wealthy now, and he owed most of it to Captain David Clarke.

It had taken another five years, sending her abroad, for her to become a lady refined enough for London society.  
Once again he had almost not recognized her as she descended the gangplank of the Lady Maderia. She was no longer the ragged child he had found in the cotton mills, but a cold woman who held herself with the regal air of one who was born to the life she was now taking over. 

 

She had fixed her posture, now standing tall, and her features had grown sharper, having thinned out from the plumpness of childhood to the defined shape of womanhood. But her heart and mind was not filled with the giddy excitement and joy of becoming an eligible woman—she had already lived more than many woman twice her age—but the raw hatred and resentment that came with having one’s life taken away. She was focused on only one thing, and that was revenging her father. In time she shared her plan with him, and of course he agreed. What could he do? He didn’t want to, and he knew David Clarke would be disappointed it had turned out so, but Nolan could not deny the child he had worked so hard to find what she wanted most. He felt he owed it to her for not finding her earlier.

So at the rather spinsterly age of twenty, Amanda Clarke under the guise of one Emily Thorne (the created daughter of a non-descript noble family who had perished on a trip to India some years ago, with no family in England to spoil the ruse), came back to London—and to Nolan, who became her de facto guardian until she was either twenty one or she married.

Torn between feeling that part of this entire revenging debacle was his fault, and being angry with her for taking this path, Nolan was drinking more than he should have.

He stared around the ballroom at the bright young men who waited eagerly for the dancing to begin. Statelier, but just as eager were the widowers and bachelors. The dangerous scent of masculine competition and lust filled the warm stuffy air, making Nolan want to hurl his glass to the floor and order everyone out.

At the moment it all seemed too much to bear, a very pretty young man with sandy hair caught his eye. After a mere moment of lingering too long on his gaze, he gave Nolan a cheeky smile. 

Smitten, Nolan downed his champagne and lifted the corner of his lip into a smirk. The boy began to move towards him, but then the orchestra ceased playing and the entire ballroom went into a titter. Nolan dragged his eyes away and turned to find Emily entering the ballroom with Mrs. Lydia Davis at her side.  
As he stared at her, he wondered, not for the first time, just what in the name of God he was doing.

She was dressed in a gown of sea blue gauze that gathered just under her breast, as was fashionable. It had delicately puffed sleeves and fell to the floor where silver slippers peeked out from underneath its embroidered hem. 

Her hair fell in tendrils softly curled around her face and her blue eyes sparkled. She looked magnificent, demure, and perfect.  
No one but him would know it was a mask.

He placed his empty glass and his walking stick in the waiting hands of a serving boy and stepped forward. Emily silently slipped her gloved hand into his, and met his eyes, the smile never leaving her mouth. 

They walked to the middle of the floor and a violin began to play a simple country dance, something that he had not expected. Couples soon joined them until the dance floor was full.

As they moved through the maze of couples, Nolan became very aware of her as she brushed by him. The silk of her dress made a gentle papery sound against his trousers, and every time she passed him, the air was scented with tuberoses. It filled his nostrils, and something happened deep within him he had not counted on, and did not fully understand.

When the dance ended, Emily curtsied, and he bowed, unable to drag his gaze from her.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Ross,” she said in a low voice, “You danced well.”

He tilted his head. “Anything for you, Miss Thorne.”

As he stood straight, he swept out his hand. “Your guests await you.”

He watched her join a crowd of girls who giggled along with her, as she played the part she had practiced until she knew it so well.  
“She is beautiful,” a voice said in his ear as he retrieved his walking stick. 

Nolan turned to find the boy he had been making eyes with across the room watching smiling at him. 

“Yes, she is,” Nolan said carefully. “She has had the misfortune of missing most of her young years to the most dreadful of circumstances, but her beauty….and fortune will most certainly make up for it.”

“Indeed.” They watched her for a moment in silence until the man turned to him and bowed. 

“Forgive me, I am Tyler Barrol.”

“Nolan Ross,” he introduced himself with a nod of his head and held up his hand. Immediately another glass of champagne was placed in his hand. He gave it to Tyler and took another for himself. 

“Yes, I know,” Tyler said with a smile that implied of danger and promise.

Nolan felt a thrill go through him. As he held up his glass for a toast, he forgot all about Emily and the scent of roses. 

 

He awoke the next morning with a headache and Tyler’s very naked form next to him. 

Ringing the bell for his manservant, he patted Tyler’s buttocks. 

“Time to awake, Mr. Barrol.”

He rose from the bed and went naked to the window and flung open the curtains. It was one of those rare autumn days before the rains, when the air was brittle, but the sun was warm; the leaves were red and orange, a fiery halo to the rooftops of London. 

“It is a beautiful day.”

Tyler groaned and sat up, squinting against the sunlight.” “Is it the morning already?”

“Yes, and it is time for you to leave.” 

Nolan pulled on his dressing robe. “While last night was extremely enjoyable, we do not want tongues wagging, do we?”  
A flicker of something passed over Tyler’s face, and it was with a confused start that he began to dress.  
The door opened and Barston entered carrying a tea tray. 

Tyler’s face whitened. 

“Do not fret; Barston will not breathe a word of this,” Nolan reassured him quietly. “He has been with me since I was in the Navy, and we are very loyal to one another. He could not care less what we do here.”

Tyler still looked unconvinced, but Barston didn’t even glance at him. 

“Shall I arrange Mr. Barrol’s carriage, Mr. Ross?”

“Yes, thank you,” Nolan said as he strode towards the bathroom. “He will leave within the hour.” 

“Very good,” he replied as the bathroom door slammed shut.

Then he was gone, leaving Tyler alone with the tea.

When Nolan came out of the bathroom, he found his bedroom empty, save the remains of his breakfast and a note from Tyler, saying, “Soon.”  
Nolan smiled at that and tossed it onto the tray.

Then he frowned. “He didn’t even leave me any tea.”

 

Nolan slowly made his way downstairs, his leg a tad more stiff than usual, to find the drawing room filled with flowers. The scent of roses jarred his good mood and brought back the memory of dancing and perfume, and as his heart jumped strangely in his chest, he was overcome with a rare nervousness as he entered the dining room to find her already there. She was writing letters and thank you notes, a fresh pot of tea next to her, her stockinged feet up on one of the chairs. She didn’t even look up when he sat down next to her, eyeing her indecently exposed toes. 

“And how was your first ball,” he asked her, pouring himself a cup of tea. 

“Probably not as good as the night you had after it was over,” she said too easily, making him blush. He was still not used to the things she said to him, even after so long of hearing them—and worse. It wasn’t that he was easily shocked—by men, that is, but women?

Women were a different matter altogether. 

His aunt had been a model of motherhood and domesticity, and it was strange for him to be around someone like Emily Thorne who, though being of noble birth, had grown up in the worst poverty.

“My goodness, Nolan,” she said with a sigh. “You must really stop blushing so much.”

“I’ll thank you to keep your thoughts inside your own head, and not plague me with them,” he retorted picking up the remains of a scone and slathering it with marmalade. “A woman should not speak of such things to a man she is not married to.”

“Then you shouldn’t keep your visitors overnight.” She met his eyes with a serious expression. “Anyone could have seen—”

Nolan scoffed. “They wouldn’t even think of such a thing, Emily. It’s too shocking for the well-bred to even contemplate.” 

She glanced at him sharply. “Perhaps you might think of my reputation? As a woman, it is all I have.”

That sobered him up very quickly. “I—had not thought of that.”

“Of course,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “I know you would not willingly jeopardize all that we have been working towards.”

Nolan was silent for a moment as he played with his tea cup. “All that you have been working towards,” he said finally. “This is your plan, not mine, Amanda.”

She glared at him with the use of her real name. “Do not call me that!” she hissed. “Even at home, never call me that name.”

Anger rising within him, Nolan got up and brushed the crumbs from his trousers. 

“Did your introduction to Danial Grayson go accordingly?” he asked stiffly. 

“It did, yes.” She answered equally as stiff. “I will be riding with him this afternoon, in Hyde Park.”

“And what ghastly bouquet of flowers in there came from him?” he asked nodding towards the drawing room. 

“The two dozen pink roses in the corner.”

“Splendid,” he said mockingly. “And will you back for tea?” 

“I would imagine so,” Emily replied airily, ignoring him. “Will you?”

“I have not yet decided.” And gritting his teeth, he left. 

His coachman was hooking up the horses when he emerged into the sunshine. 

“The factory, Peter,” he said with a wave of his walking stick as he climbed up, sliding over the plush velvet seat. “Then the Times building.”

“Yes sir,” Peter replied with a nod as he finished securing the reigns.

He was halfway there when he realized she had called his house, “home.”

 

He stayed at the factory for a few hours to mull over designs of a new printing press he was working on, and the logistics of building the equipment to us steam, and then made his way over to the London Times to meet with the editor, Jack Porter at his offices. They negotiated in loud terms over the design of the new printing press Nolan had, the amount of the contract, and whether or not the Times would have exclusive rights to it if it was a success.

By the time he arrived home, just in time for tea, his leg was aching something dreadful. He should not have danced.  
Settling into a chair by the fire, he ordered a compress, and put his leg up on a stool, massaging the twitching muscles around the scar tissue until the tension eased somewhat. 

Barston brought the tea. He was tipping a bit of Brandy into his cup when the door to the salon opened and Emily stormed in, her brows drawn together in a frown, the red velvet of her riding habit swirling around her ankles.

“Barston said you were unwell.” Her eyes searched him almost angrily, as though looking for some outward sign of injury. 

He was momentarily stunned into silence as he stared at her over his cup.

“Well, are you?” She demanded.

He frowned up at her. “It’s my leg. Other than that, I’m perfectly fine.”

“Oh, is that all.” She flopped, unladylike down onto the chair across from him. 

“Is that all? I was shot in the leg with a musket!”

She sighed. “Don’t be dramatic, Nolan, that was years and years ago. Barston made it sound like you were dying, now.”

“I very much doubt that,” he replied skeptically, easing his leg down with his hands. “The injury is bothering me this afternoon. I seem to have overdone it last night.”

The moment it was out he realized what it sounded like, and as her eyebrows rose, he said, “From the dancing, Emily. Dancing.”

She sat up with a start. “I did this to you?”  
“No, the dancing did.” He looked around. “Am I speaking Italian or Chinese? Why do I keep having to repeat myself?”

She scowled and stood up. “I see I was wrong to worry. I really thought it might have been something quite serious. You say it was the dancing, but I believe the antics in your bedroom are mostly to blame.” She strode to the door, looking back as she opened it. “In the future, you may want to ask your overnight guests to keep the caterwauling to a minimum.”

She slammed the door and Nolan sighed, slumping down into his chair and closing his eyes.

 

She didn’t speak to him for two days after that, and he wondered, not for the first time, what he was gaining from this scheme. There was guilt, yes, but guilt could be taken care of in many ways that didn’t involve subjecting himself to the tortures, tantrums, and deep seeded anger that ran rampant in his once quiet and orderly household.

For weeks he watched her flounce about, playing with the hounds, reading, and flirting with Daniel Greyson as they went riding, attended concerts, and parties. It was courting at its most obvious.

Even at his club, he began to hear the rumors of their impending marriage. The more he heard, the more sour his feelings towards the Greyson family became.  
While Conrad Greyson was arrogant, his wife Victoria was cunning, shrewd, and extremely protective of the family name and fortune. This protectiveness extended far over her son and though many women had tried to gain his affection, they had coward miserably under the sharp eye of his mother.  
Emily was different. Victoria knew it, and that made Nolan nervous.

“It will be fine,” he muttered to himself, as he made his way downstairs.  
The Greyson’s were dining with them, and he was trying to compose himself so that his nerves did not show. He heard the door open downstairs, and taking a sip of champagne and a deep breath, he went out to greet his guests.

It was a mostly polite, if uninteresting dinner, with the weather, business, and the opening of the Royal Opera season in the next month being the only topics of conversation. 

Victoria Greyson watched Emily like a hawk, but Emily either didn’t notice, or she ignored it. Nolan was sure it was the former, for there were few times since he had met her that she hadn’t been in complete control of her surroundings. 

Still, Victoria was a formidable enemy, and that she did not realize whose daughter sat before her, was to Emily’s own cunning. 

“Well, Mr. Ross,” Mr. Greyson said a bit too cheerfully as he raised his third glass of wine before dessert had been served to his lips. “How goes the printing business?”

“Very well, sir. Steam and steel are the future.”

“Yes, there is a lot of money to be made…and you, sir, seem to have made quite a lot. You and—what was his name?” He pressed his wineglass against his forehead.

Victoria visibly stiffened and Emily’s fork paused slightly on its way to her mouth. 

“David Clark,” Nolan helped, wanting to see where this was going. 

“Yes, yes,” Conrad said absently. “It was a shame he turned out to be a murderer.”

“Father!” Daniel admonished. “I’m sure Mr. Ross does not want to be reminded of such—such an acquaintance!”

“No, it’s quite alright,” Nolan replied easily. “David Clarke invested in my ideas, and believed in me when no one else did. Whatever he did…if he even did it…I will always be grateful to him for that.”

Victoria looked at him sharply, and he could feel Emily’s eyes on him. 

Daniel raised his glass in a toast. “Here, here,” he said, in such a pompous tone, Nolan wanted to throw his wine in his face. 

Instead he forced a smile and said, “Cheers.”

“Oh, I could have strangled him!”

A pillow flew by Nolan’s head, but he merely sipped his port. As long as it wasn’t aimed at him, Nolan didn’t bother to even flinch anymore when Emily raged.  
And she raged quite a lot. 

“How dare he say such things, the smug bastard, when he knows full well he and his bitch of a wife are responsible for everything!”

The door opened slightly, and Barston made to enter, but one look at Emily, storming back and forth across the sitting room, he quickly shut it again. 

“Oh, I wanted to press my thumbs so hard in his throat—” Her knuckles turned white as she clenched her fingers into claws. Then she sighed and her shoulders slumped. “Still…thank you, Nolan.”

Nolan looked up at her in surprise. “Thank you? What for?” He was genuinely curious, and a bit pleased. She didn’t thank him often.

“You defended my father,” she said in a low voice. 

“It is nothing I need to be thanked for,” Nolan said gently. “It was merely the truth.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “But there are so few people telling the truth.” She looked almost ashamed. “Including me.”

Nolan searched her face and found that she looked very young. He saw the remnants of the little girl he had met one day at Brighton so long ago, and it tugged his heart. 

“A day will come, when you will tell the truth. Even if it is to no one but me.”

He winked at her, and got up, yawning. “Now I’m off to bed.”

He went to pat her on the shoulder, but the picture of her golden head bowed before him prevented him from doing so, and he withdrew his hand, hoping she did not notice. He prepared for bed, but he could not sleep. The image of her small shoulder, the smooth line of her neck haunting his thoughts.  
He did not sleep well, but what he didn’t know was that he wasn’t the only one. 

 

Opening night of the Royal Opera was one of the most important events during the London season, where everyone who was everyone went to parade and show off. The music, while enjoyed, was second to the excitement of who was wearing what and gossiping about the latest scandal. Often the men were just as bad or worse than the women, something Nolan found utterly amusing when he would have to listen to them all complain about it at his club.

Nolan was standing in front of the large gilt mirror in the hall, adjusting his cravat for the umpteenth time that evening.

Emily was still upstairs, and he was growing impatient. He happened to dearly love Mozart, and the buzz around his new opera, The Marriage of Figaro had been creating quite a stir since its opening night in Vienna. He did not want to be late.

He turned to yell for her to put down the hairpins, when his voice caught in his throat.

She was standing at the top of the stairs in a blue velvet and gold silk dress that both shimmered like the sun and was as matte as the night sky. Her maid, Alice, followed behind her, a cloak made of blue velvet trimmed with silver fox fur delicately slung over her arm. 

Paying no attention to him, Emily stepped carefully down the stairs, holding her skirt slightly above the floor so that she did not trip. As she stepped down from the last step, he was once again overwhelmed with the scent of roses, and when she lifted her eyes to his, he was sure his heart would explode through his chest, it was beating so hard.

Alice handed the cloak out to him. Wordlessly he took it and placed it on Emily’s shoulders, gently smoothing his hands down to her arms. His lips were so close to the nape of her neck, and he longed to press them there against the tendrils that were too short to style. 

Mozart had been forgotten.

“Nolan?”

He heard his name, but she sounded far away.

“Nolan!

Then she was facing him, her brow furrowed in impatience. “We are going to be late!”

He found himself nodding, unable to speak. Woodenly he supplied her his arm, but when she took it, he could feel her touch through the many layers as though she were made of fire, and not flesh. 

They rode to the Royal Opera House in silence. When they arrived, they made pleasantries with their acquaintances. Nolan did so through a pinkish gold colored haze. They went to their box, but Nolan couldn’t focus on the music. All he could focus on was how close she was, how her breast rose with each and every breath.

When the opera ended, the coachman helped her into the carriage and he followed. Silently, Emily stared out the window, and equally as silent, Nolan stared at the carriage floor and contemplated his heart.

It could not be denied. He wanted her, yes, but it was more than that. He couldn’t recall any happy memory in the time before she had come into his life, even when she made him angry or drove him mad. Before her he had been quietly…content. If she were to leave him and marry Daniel Greyson, his life would be as empty as his house…again. He would have his printing presses, but it wouldn’t be enough. 

He loved her.

The thought hit him rather hard, and it when the carriage stopped, Nolan was quick to exit into the fresh night air, not waiting for the coachman. He stood and breathed in a few gulps of air before turning around to face her. 

But she was not there. He peered inside to find that she had fallen asleep, her hands loose, her cheek pressed up against the window. Nolan waved the coachman away, and put a finger to his lips. The man nodded and busied himself with unharnessing the horses. 

He let her sleep for almost half an hour before it had gotten too cold, and his toes had started to go numb. 

“Emily,” he said softly. “Emily?”

She stirred and opened her eyes, blinking. “Are we home?”

Her words warmed him, and he replied, “Yes, we are home. Come, let’s get you to bed.”

Still sleepy, she moved towards him, placing her hands on his shoulders. He was momentarily surprised at the intimate gesture, but when she didn’t push him away, he grasped her waist and lifted her out of the carriage, her cloak and skirts whirling around his knees.

Her weight shifted towards him, and as he lowered her to the ground, her body brushed his. When her feet touched the ground, she was wide awake and staring up at him. Still, she did not move away.

“Emily?” He asked nervously, the heat that throbbed through his nether regions reaching dangerous levels.

“You’re eyes are blue,” she said suddenly. Then she brushed past him, going into the house and leaving him in the street, cold and alone. 

 

A few weeks later, Daniel Greyson asked Emily Thorne to marry him.

It was a blustery day, with rain lashing the windows and a chill in the air, when she finally told Nolan. They were reading in the parlor, Nolan in his chair, and Emily curled up on the sofa, her feet tucked under her skirts.

“Nolan?” she said suddenly, breaking the quiet comfort.

“Hm?” he murmured absently, absorbed in a tale by the American author, Washington Irving.

“Daniel asked me to marry him.”

Nolan sat frozen, his eyes reading the same word over and over again. 

“Nolan?”

Finally he looked up. “And have you given him your answer?” he asked quietly.

She was watching him carefully. “Yes. I said yes.”

Nolan swallowed. There was a lump in his throat and a hollow feeling in his belly. 

“And have you given much thought to what is supposed to happen after you marry him?” 

She tilted her chin up defiantly. “Of course I have!”

But he was not sure she did. He closed his book and sat up.

“You do understand, if you marry him, all your wealth, your property, even you, yourself, become his. You will belong to him, and there will be nothing you can do about it.”

“I know!” she cried out angrily.

“And that is something you are willing to jeopardize for revenge?” 

“I cannot...” She avoided his eyes. “I owe my father that much.”

There was something about the she spoke that made his heart constrict tightly in his chest. 

“Is it enough?”

She looked up. “Enough? Enough for whom?”

“For you,” he replied softly. “Do you really believe your father would want you to live this way?”

Her face hardened. “I would not know, for he is dead and not here to tell me!”

“No.” Nolan agreed. “But I am here, and I knew your father. I will tell you again, as I did when we first met, this is not the path he would have wished for you.”

“It is too late,” she said coldly. “It is done.”

“It is never too late.”

“Yes, it is!”

“For Emily?” he asked, taking in her anger. “Or for Amanda?”

She was silent, and then confessing in a miserable tone, 

“I do not know. They are one and the same now. I cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, his heart aching for her pain. 

“Do you?” 

“Of course I do,” he replied softly. “Do I not know you better than anyone…even yourself?”

She was silent, as though considering his words. Then a frown crossed her mouth, her brow wrinkling delicately. “Yes. And why should you not? You scraped me up off the street, gave me my inheritance when you could have kept it for yourself, and could, if you so pleased, take everything away from me with the simple utterance of what name I was born with.”

“But I would never do that.” He gripped the armchair with his fingers, tightly. “I could never do that.”

Suddenly her eyes flashed brilliantly, and her tone agitated as she spoke. “Why, Nolan? Why do you protect my secrets so fiercely? I cannot understand, when I have done everything possible to drive you away.” 

It was with the air of a man who had given up the will to fight that he replied. “Do you really not know?”

“I know you loved my father. You would have done anything for him.”

Nolan’s heart sank. She thought it all had to do with her father. Was he really so poor at showing her affection?

“He was my dearest friend,” he admitted. “But he is gone, and cannot be hurt as those of us still alive, can. I do not do it for him.”

Her eyes widened and he could see the dawning of a new realization on her features. There was a brief flare of hope, but it was quickly extinguished when she spun on her heel and marched of the room.

With each step she took, his heart broke a little more.

 

By May, wedding preparations were well underway for an August wedding in the Greyson’s country estate in Hertfordshire, as were Victoria Greyson’s attempts at sabotaging her son’s wedding.

She tried to scrounge up past scandals involving her family; she tried to trick her into revealing herself through false confidence and friendship. When that failed, she turned to Nolan Ross, and it was there she found weakness—in the name of Tyler Barrol. 

 

On a hot June day, Nolan was asked to come to the Times to discuss his contract. Confused, and a little worried, he went as soon as he could.

The moment Nolan saw Conrad Greyson’s sneering face as he stood next to the Jack Porter’s desk, he knew he was not here for anything good. 

“Mr. Ross,” Jack Porter rose from his chair, looking extremely unhappy. 

“Good afternoon, sirs,” Nolan said as politely as he could to the men before him. “What can I assist you with?”

“Ah, yes, I—” Jack fumbled around, turning bright red. “That is—”

“For God’s sake, man!” Conrad barked, causing everyone to jump. He turned to Nolan, triumph in his eyes. “Your gross conduct with a certain individual has led us to believe you to be an unsuitable business partner.”

“Pardon?”

“Yes, sir, we have proof that you engaged in—” he looked Nolan up and down in disgust. “—unlawful acts before God and this country.” 

Though he began to feel the cold trickle of fear down his spine, Nolan defended himself, saying, “I do not understand you, sir—”

Mr. Greyson strode to the door. “Perhaps he will refresh your absent memory.”

As soon as the door began to open, Nolan knew something terrible was about to happen from which he would never recover. 

Tyler Barrol entered, looking straight ahead, and Nolan’s blood turned to ice. He struggled to keep his expression neutral as he spoke.

“What do you mean? I have met Mr. Barrol, but do not know him well.”

“Do you not?” Mr. Greyson asked nastily. “Come man, Mr. Barrol has told us how you seduced him and had unnatural—er, physical contact—” He seemed to be struggling with the concept, his face bright red. “—that occurred the night of Miss Thorne’s introduction into society. He will testify to your unnatural tastes.”

“Testify?” Despite his fear, Nolan was baffled. “To whom? Even if he were telling the truth, how would it benefit him to out himself as a…sodomite?”

The word was difficult to say, as he felt it made him sound like a religious zealot. But he did not have the proper vocabulary to express the normalcy of a relationship between two men; the way it was not so very different from the romantic love or lust expressed between men and women. 

“Are you taking me to court, sir?”

There was a moment of silence and the air grew heavy, as though the reality of what might happen to them all had finally sunk in.

Jack cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Court? I don’t—”

Mr. Greyson interrupted him, a vicious smile slashing the lower half of his face. 

“No, the rumor should be enough to ruin you. Society does not forgive and they do not forget.” 

“And what of Mr. Barrol?” Betrayed and hurt as he was, he did care what happened to Tyler.”

“He will do as I say.”

Tyler’s head snapped up and he glared at Mr. Greyson. “I promised you nothing of that sort, Mr. Greyson. I will not testify in a public court.”

Mr. Greyson turned and glared at him. “He will do as I say!”

Tyler seemed to shrink under Conrad’s gaze, and there was triumph on his face when he turned back to Nolan.

“As a tradesman you should know your place among us was never going to last.”

“Us,” Nolan said softly to himself. “That is the way it is…that is the way it has always been.”

“Money does not buy breeding.”

“No, it does not,” Nolan agreed.

“I’m sorry, Nolan,” Jack said quietly. “So very sorry.”

“Don’t be, Jack, my friend,” Nolan replied, feeling as though his mind were stuffed with cotton wool. “I do not blame you, one bit.”

“You have no one to blame but yourself,” Mr. Greyson spat. “Your perverse nature—”

“That’s enough,” Nolan snapped, taking Mr. Greyson aback. “You say money does not buy breeding, but as you have shown me here today, breeding does not mean one is well bred. You have insulted me beyond reason, and I do not have to stand here and listen to you slander me any longer. You, sir, are a vicious bully.” Then with a smart and respectful bow, Nolan left the room, Conrad Greyson sputtering behind him.

 

Nolan left the Times, numb and dazed. He wandered through the streets, not caring where he was going, nor who he ignored. He had been destroyed. He would never sell another printing press in England again, not with Conrad Greyson holding the purse strings and the power. Other papers would do exactly what the Times did—not that he blamed them—they would fall as spectacularly as he did if they disobeyed. 

Sodomy. He shivered at the word. He would be lucky if his reputation was all that was ruined. If he were brought to trial, he would go to prison, for the courts did not take such a thing lightly. There was nothing for him to do except to keep his head low, perhaps retire somewhere far up north in Scotland.

He found himself in front of his factory, not knowing how he had gotten there. He went in. It was cold and empty, and would be so forever. He thought of his workers and their livelihoods. He would pay them generously, though he knew it was not enough. How much would be spent on ale and women? He decided he would call on a few favors to get some of the more dependent men work, so they didn’t feel aimless or useless. 

Agitated and not wanting to go home, he took his helplessness and frustration out on one of the broken printing presses. He removed his jacket and cravat, and had rolled the sleeves of his fine linen shirt up to his elbows, but after a time, he found it wasn’t enough. The room was full of hot steam, and sweat poured down his back and his forehead. Soon he was soaking and covered in grease, so he removed his shirt.

He was still working past nine o’clock, completely absorbed in his work, when he suddenly realized he wasn’t alone.

He looked up, startled, to find Emily staring at him from the doorway, her eyes wide. He was about to ask her what she was doing there, when he realized he was half naked, and despite their jests and openness, she had never seem him in such a disheveled state.

“Emily!” 

“Mr. Ross.” Her voice was strained and her cheeks flooded with color. 

Embarrassed, he took up his shirt from the chair and began to button it up as quickly as possible. 

“What is it, Miss Thorne?” He searched her person anxiously as he fumbled with the buttons. “You look pale. Are you unwell?”

“I have heard something terr—”

But she fell quiet at the sound of footsteps just outside the door. A moment later Daniel Grayson walked through looking mildly irritated. 

“Miss Thorne!” He took ahold of her arm. “You mustn’t run away like that. This is not the sort of place ladies should be—

He stopped short when his eyes fell on Nolan, a flicker of anger crossing his features that only Nolan saw before it was gone. Daniel inclined his head curtly.

“Mr. Ross.”

Nolan returned the bow, but deeper. How did she already know? His insides seared hot.

“Mr. Greyson.”

Daniel turned back to Emily, though noticeably stiffer and less warm. “It is inappropriate for you to be alone in a place such as this with—such a man. It will ruin your reputation.”

She looked appalled. “He is my guardian!”

“Not any longer,” he said severely. “It is past midnight. You are twenty-one.” 

There was a moment of silence while this was absorbed. 

Daniel cleared his throat. “Please, Miss Thorne. Do not concern yourself with such unpleasant business. There is nothing you can do.” He turned to Nolan. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Ross?”

Noland was stunned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tell Miss. Thorne she can do nothing for your factory,” he said impatiently. “She seems to be under the impression that it is somehow her fault that you have lost your contract.”

Nolan turned to Emily, befuddled. “I—it is nothing you have done, Miss Thorne.” 

The lie fell so easily from his lips, for even though it had everything to do with her, he did not want her to feel the burden of it. 

“There, you see?” Daniel gestured to him. 

“Yes,” she said, recovering quickly, the mask in place once again. “I wished to see…if you were well—that it had not….”

“Yes. I am well.” He didn’t know what else to say, so he said nothing at all.

Daniel cleared his throat again and nodded at Nolan, his lips curled. “Your shirt, sir…” Nolan glanced down to see that he had done up the buttons wrong and a rather large expanse of his chest was still exposed.

He felt his face heat up, and there was awkward silence as he redid them. When he looked up, Emily, tight-lipped and pale, nodded at him once, and let Daniel Greyson escort her out. 

Nolan listed to their footsteps and quietly murmuring voices until there was nothing but silence around him. He tried to focus on his work again, but he could not get the image of her out of his head, and it was in this distraction, he smashed his thumb between the wrench and the bolt he was tightening. 

“Damn!” he cursed, throwing his wrench to the floor where it clattered loudly. “Damn!”

His voice echoed around him in the empty factory as though mocking him, and as a painful loneliness rose up within him he covered his face with his hands, breathing in the sharp scent of grease. 

“Damn you.” It came out a whisper, and he wasn’t quite sure he was speaking to Daniel, Emily…or to himself. 

When he arrived home later in the morning, he found Emily waiting for him in the parlor looking drawn and pale. When she saw him, she started, but then collected herself. 

“Who told you?”

“Who do you believe told me?” She scoffed. “Daniel, of course…but how—?”

“Mr. Barrol,” Nolan admitted, not meeting her eyes. “He was most likely paid off.”

“Bastard,” she whispered. “But what will you do?” 

He sat down in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “I do not know. I have to think.”

“Daniel has told me to leave your house.”

Nolan stilled, his heart twisting. “I see.”

“Nolan, I—”

“Go, Emily. If you do not want to lose your reputation and your chance for revenge, you must leave.” He forced a lopsided smile. “I will be fine. I am Nolan Ross, am I not?”

She did not smile back. “Yes, you are. But you are not invincible.”

He suddenly felt exhausted. “I have much to think about. I will see you tomorrow.”

He stood and was leaving when she said, “I will be gone tomorrow morning.”

He did not stop or answer, but closed the door gently behind him. 

She was gone when he came down after noon with a raging headache. He sipped his tea, feeling the worst he had ever felt in his life. Aimlessly wandering around his library, picking up books, ignoring callers, and not eating, he came across a collection of stories he had been reading but abandoned a month or so before, by Washington Irving. 

America. 

Suddenly, a sense of hope and promise flared within him. He would go to America. Surely he could make a new beginning there. No one would have ever heard of him out west, and—

Suddenly Emily’s face rose in front of his eyes. “No,” he whispered to himself. “She has chosen her path, and now you must choose yours.”

 

It took him more than a month, but by early August, he was ready, and purchased a ticket on the next boat out of Southampton. He needed to do only one thing before he left…

He arranged to meet Emily at the Inn he was staying at in Hertfordshire before setting off for Southampton. She was there for her wedding, and so he made sure to arrive silently without preamble. He did not want the Greysons to hear of his visit. 

He was drinking tea when she entered the inn, her riding habit of red plush, making her look like a goddess. He felt his breath quicken at the sight of her, but he soon quashed it down. 

“Hello, Emily,” he said quietly. “You look well.”

“As do you.”

He did not wait for any false pleasantries. 

“I am going to America.” He watched her closely, but she did not change her expression. “There is a need for technology—steam and mechanics—and I—” he tuned his beaver hat around in his hands nervously. “—I want to go to a place where men do not care that I am not of noble birth.

That was when she blushed, which confused him. 

“I am leaving you as the guardian of my property and finances with instructions to allow you to use it and my money as you wish.” 

A shadow crossed her face. “I do not care for money. Do you think that is why I follow this path?”

Nolan stepped forward in agitation. “No. I merely want you to be free…as every man, and woman should be.” He shook his head. “I do not wish you to be property, Emily.”

She looked at him curiously. “You are rare among men, Nolan. Property is what we have always been. Should you never feel that way?” She paused and looked away. “Even if I were to marry you?”

Her words startled him. “Never,” he replied abruptly, with passion. “Never.”

“Well then,” she said after a long silence. “Good luck. I wish you the best.”

“And I you,” Nolan replied.

He watched her go, and then drank himself into a stupor.

 

He was outside the Inn grooming his horse the following evening. It was odd to think he would not see this land again, and it made him somewhat melancholy.

He heard his name called out from behind him.

“Nolan!”

He closed his eyes at the sound of her voice. He knew the very moment his eyes fell upon her, that the fragile wall he had built around his heart would break apart. 

“Nolan. Please!”

That one word; the one he had never heard her speak to him since he had known her made him stop, though he did not turn to look at her. He heard her footsteps as she drew closer.He stared at the ground wordlessly. He did not know what to say, nor did he want to look at her.

“Please.” 

There was that word again. 

“Look at me.”

His heart lurched and began to flutter painfully. Even so, he lifted his eyes. 

What he saw, he did not expect. 

She was staring at him, blue eyes wide, and she was breathless, her breast rising and falling rapidly above the neckline of her dress. Her hair was mussed, hair pins loose, and she wore no shawl. 

She had not prepared to leave the house.

“Are you well?” he asked, slightly concerned. “Has something happened?”

She frowned. “What? No, no. Nothing.”

He waited for her to tell him what she wanted, but she was silent.

“What is it?” he pressed, but she remained stubbornly silent. As he made to depart, she finally spoke,

I left Daniel.”

He froze. "Why?"

"He isn't enough. Revenge isn't enough. I want to be free."

"I am glad," he said softly. "So very glad."

"Don’t leave.”

"There is nothing for me here. Not any longer.”

“But there is still so much to be done."

He smiled gently, feeling the very wide gap of age and class between them. “Yes. But you must fight your own battles now. You are a wealthy woman and very capable. You do not need me. Not anymore.”

She was searching about her, as though the very thing that might make him stay was right there in the fields and trees, in the clouds above, dark and heavy with rain. 

“But you have always been there,” she said finally, her voice low. “You protected me, fought for me, even when the rest of the world was against me.” 

The first drops of rain began to fall, splattering the leaves above them, and dripping down onto her upturned face and the dry dust below their feet.

She wiped her cheek and shook her head. “And now I am to go on without you.” 

He swallowed hard and his heart began to thud loudly against his ribs. He hardly noticed the rain.

“I—I was so ashamed. That night in the factory. I was sure I was the reason it had all gone badly…and then the way he spoke to you…” her voice trembled. “As though you were nothing but dirt under his feet. I should have—I should have—”

She bowed her head and he saw tears slip down her cheeks and fall with the rain to the ground. As he stared down at the top of her magnificent head with a tenderness he had never felt before. He loved her, but he had never dared to hope—

Slowly he reached out and touched her, tilting her chin up so that she was forced to look at him. She let him lift her head, but she would not meet his eyes.

“I never thought badly of you, Emily.”

“You should have.”

“Why?” 

“Because I did not come to your defense.”

“Did you not?” He asked softly. “Is that not why you came there?”

She did not answer, but placed her hand over his. He was startled at the touch, for they were bare. He had never felt her fingers on his without the barrier of gloved between them. 

“You asked me once if I did not know why you kept my secrets.” She finally met his eyes. “Wasn’t I in your heart?” 

The rain was falling heavy now, splattering the dusty road; the scent of dampened earth in a flurry around them. Her curls were plastered to her cheeks which were rosy with cold, and there was, on her face, an intense expression that was turned wholly on him; for once in the lives they had shared together, it was she who was balanced on the edge, waiting. A warmth started deep in his breast and spread. The rain blurred his sight, so that he had to wipe his eyes to see her. 

“Weren’t you in mine?”

For a brief moment, he thought he had not heard her correctly. But then she placed her lips on his knuckles, their softness causing him to catch his breath in a shudder. He could not tell if he was hot or cold. 

She tilted her chin up. “Ask me to marry you.” 

It was not in desperation that she asked this question, nor was it really a demand. 

“Ask me…” She stepped towards him. “Ask me, Nolan.” 

She faltered then, and it was that exquisite sound that broke the spell of distance she had held over him for so many years. With just a sound it had gone, and he dropped his walking stick and took her into his arms and pressing his lips to hers. 

Caught by his forcefulness, Emily parted her lips with a small noise of surprise and gripped his arms tightly with her fingers, her mouth softening under his. It was the sweetest thing Nolan had ever known, and it filled him with a happiness he had not dared hope to feel since he realized he was in love with her. 

They stood under the eaves of the house, their mouths wet with rain and one another. After a time, he pulled away and she fell back onto her feet, breathlessly staring up at him. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, searching her face.

“Are you real?” he whispered. “Am I not dreaming?”

“It is I who is dreaming…” she said low, and with feeling as she gripped the front of his waistcoat. “…that you are still here when I have been so unfeeling, so dull-witted, I—” 

But he did not let her finish. He embraced her once more, and in the time that it took them to find their way out of the rain and into the Inn, they were soaked through; the thin lawn of her dress clinging to her arms, which he felt trembling beneath his fingers, petticoats tangling between their legs as they bumped up against a side table.

Her hands were in his hair and the softness of her breast against his own was almost too much to bear; but there was still something he had not asked her, and he pulled back from her.

She stared up at him breathless, and he took her warm cheeks into his cold hands.

“My Emily,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against hers. “Will you marry me? For real?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “And I accept you with all my heart.”

He let out the breath he did not know he held and drew her to him once more.

“I will confess, I am afraid,” he murmured into her hair. “Will I awake tomorrow and find you gone and myself alone?”

“No. Never again.”

She drew away and looked up with a sweet smile he remembered from when she was a child, playing in her father’s house with her dog.

“I will never let you go.” She brushed his damp hair from his eyes. “You are mine, forever.”

Gathering her up into his arms, he carried her past an astounded innkeeper, upstairs to his room where she soon discovered he was extremely capable at things she had never imagined him to be, despite the sounds that had occasioned from his bedroom past the time that any decent person was awake. 

But they weren’t decent people.

Not at all.


End file.
